


Saturnalia

by universitycardigans



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Action, Adventure, Dark Academia, Demigods, Gen, Grantaire is greek and Enjolras doesn't plan things very well, Greece, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Light Academia, M/M, Modern AU, Monsters, Mortals, National Treasure and Adventures of TinTin type shit happening over here, The Pantheon, World Adventure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:55:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25949941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/universitycardigans/pseuds/universitycardigans
Summary: Cameron Enjolras was seeking solace and relaxation on his trip to Greece, he wasn't anticipating his new landlord to burst through the front door at 10pm, laurels in his hair and holding two newborn wolf pups.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Kudos: 6





	Saturnalia

**Author's Note:**

> sorry if these chapters are short, and unedited, there are no beta readers to be seen in my inbox, if someone could tell me how to summon them that would be great :)

It was a summer afternoon in Akropolis, Greece. Golden sunlight streamed through white linens on clotheslines, their light shadows billowed in the low breeze that none of the passersby on the streets could feel, but the narrow high walls of the apartments and storefronts could. Women and men and children milled loudly about the marketplace in t-shirts and flip-flops and colorful shorts. Large cats were spooked by shouting, swearing, and the loud engines of mopeds and dinky - yet charming - cars that kicked up fallen leaves and dust on the cobblestone road. The smell of melted butter and custard pastries filled the air, mixed with the stench of cigars being smoked by a dozen heavy middle-aged greek men dining at a restaurant patio nearby. 

All of this blended together made a beautiful medditeranean town. Unfortunately, it was hot as _balls_.

Cameron Enjolras was not dressed for this kind of heat, his black Adidas track pants, sweatshirt, and pale complexion were painfully out of place in the town. So was his dark red suitcase adorned with various travel stickers and giant tote bag with a fleur de lis pattern. He tucked his hair behind his ears, keeping an eye out for something to eat. He tended to avoid airport food ever since an incident at Starbucks in an Australian airport a few years back. Besides, he liked checking out some of the local food. 

He also knew that food places were the best place to ask for directions.

Enjolras followed his nose, tracking the butter and custard smell. He ended up at a small hole-in-the-wall bakery, with no english words on the menu. The smell was coming from a delicious looking pastry that was being made at lightning speed by an old woman, the line wasn’t too long, which gave Enjolras enough time to analyze the menu and his English-Greek dictionary (he would’ve had a french to greek one, but he couldn’t find one in time for his flight) for the corresponding translation. The special was called Galaktoboureko, which he screwed up his courage to pronounce as he approached the front of the line, and the bored teenage boy staring forlornly at some kids practicing soccer tricks across the street.

“Geia, boró na écho to Galaktoboureko parakaló?” Enjolras said, in a hopefully passable pronunciation.

“Huhh...” His hopes went down the drain when the kid looked at him in hostile confusion.

Just as Enjolras got a little bit sweaty and painfully aware of the growing line behind him, the old woman stopped her baking and approached him with a smile.

“American tourist?” She asked, gently pushing the kid away from the register.

“French,” Enjolras supplied, holding up the tote. He was thankful for some semblance of language familiarity, even if it was English.

“Ah, oui, unfortunate that I know more English than French, then,” The woman said, Enjolras shrugged and made a face to say it’s fine, “So, the Galaktoboureko?”

“Yes, thank you.” Enjolras said, getting some Euros out of his pocket and handing them to her as she read the total and the teenager gave him the pastry in a small wax paper bag. Enjolras almost forgot to ask for directions.

“Do you know how to get to Olympos?” Enjolras asked the teenager as he was handed his bag.

“Yeah, go follow main road that way,” He pointed straight past Enjolras to a small travel bookstore, “And buy a map. Good day, mister.”

Enjolras nodded and walked away, ignoring the kid giggling at his own joke, and _not_ blushing. At least he had food now.

Enjolras hoped that “R” would actually have a washing machine in their house, as they had stated on the rent description, because with the anxiety and heat, Enjolras sweatshirt was soaked through.

He bought a map of the town and neighboring communities from yet another sassy, bored, teenager. He wasn’t too surprised as apparently most of the businesses in Akropolis were family owned. On a relative note, he had also picked up an informational pamphlet in the Travel Bookshop. Along with a French-Greek translation dictionary.

He opened the map, putting the rest of his haul into his Fleur-De-Tote bag. Following the map, and the advice from a confident eight year old girl, he found a good route to R’s rental.

The moon was in the evening sky by the time Enjolras made it to the house. He dragged his suitcase behind him, it wasn’t too heavy, but was taxing to carry through the - admittedly beautiful - countryside. His pastry was, sadly, long gone, he would have to search up the recipe soon to see if he could make it.

A sparse cobblestone walkway led up to a white, three story villa. It may have been a pastel colour, but in the moody lighting, Enjolras couldn’t tell. He passed the tall trees, and swatted away the fireflies that hovered in front of his eyes. The salty smell of the sea hit him as he turned a corner on the driveway. He looked out on a vast body of water, mist hitting his pale face, he saw the last remnants of a sunset dipping below the surface. The sky at the edge of the sea was pink, slowly fading into a purple as the sun started to slip beneath the waves.

A startling howl and a sharp yell resounded from what sounded like the next cliff over, making Enjolras jump. He scrambled to get his suitcase and walked quickly to the entrance of the Villa. At the dark wood doors, he raised a fist to knock before spotting the paper smack-dab in the middle of the door, pointing to the key’s location with a large arrow and a hastily scribbled message.

‘ _Key is under the flower pot, enjoy my house :)_

_Love, R’_

The key was where it was promised and suddenly Enjolras felt a whole lot less safe. Mostly because if anyone had seen that before him, Enjolras would be dead soon, if anything that note told him that R was an honest-to-god dunce, or just didn’t care about their own safety even a little bit.

After checking his surroundings, he stepped through the threshold, and - after locking the door behind him - had a stark realization that this was not the house of a dunce. But it was the kind of house where safety obviously didn’t come into the mix that often.

It looked like someone had broken in, but had a stubborn i-know-where-everything-is-this-way vibe. A giant pile of books were stacked haphazardly next to the staircase, shoes and boots with dried mud and sand stuck onto them littered the foyer carpet, and Enjolras spotted his own blue eyes in the mirror above the wooden bench with a gold fur covering on it that matched the color of Enj’s own hair.

Moving through the house, Enjolras discovered the kitchen, with flowers and herbs hanging from the ceiling and cabinets, a small round table with two simple wooden chairs set against a floor to ceiling window with an amazing view facing the ocean. The center of the house was a large hallway in the middle with a winding staircase leading up to the third floor and a glass door leading to a patio, with two locked wooden doors parallel to each other. On the opposite side of the kitchen was a simple living room and small library, dusty bookcases with old sleeveless volumes that had gold roman numerals and greek writing inlaid onto them, and again, messy stacked piles of books next to old but expensive couches and armchairs, all the same shade of baby blue.

Enjolras found another note on the staircase.

‘ _Your room, dearest guest, is on the second floor, first door (check the rhyme) on the right.’_

An acknowledgement of a dumb rhyme shouldn’t have made him snort in amusement, but his sense of humor was more skewed these days.

Enjolras made his way up the stairs to the second floor. There was a balcony on this floor, along with more big windows and a glass door. The door to the spare bedroom - his bedroom - was open with another paper stuck to it, it didn’t have anything written on it except for a smiley face. The spare room was big, and most importantly, completely neat and unused. It looked like it was recently cleaned for dust, a gesture that Enjolras was thankful for.

He collapsed on the bed and looked out the windows adjacent to the bed that provided an unobstructed view of the ocean. He got up and put down the blinds, changing into his lightweight bamboo fabric pajamas that people assumed he got in Japan, but really he got them on amazon when he was nineteen.

Enjolras had never been to Japan before, he was thinking about some things he could do there when a loud knock on the front door hit his ears. He reluctantly got out of bed, and went down the stairs.

“It’s me, it’s R!” A man’s voice resounded from outside the door, sounding kind of frazzled, “Woah- hey little buddy, calm down there for a second. Can you open the door, man?”

Enjolras walked over and swung open the door to come face to face with a tall, raven haired man with laurel leaves ensnared in his curls, holding two small wolf pups.

“Thanks,” R said, kicking off his muddy shoes hastily and speed walking to one of the locked doors on the left side of the hallway, almost tripping over the giant book pile, leaving Enjolras stunned with an open door, staring after him.

“Shut the door or you’ll let bugs in!” R said, shifting one of the wolf pups to his other arm, grabbing a key from his back pocket and unlocking the door. Enjolras quickly slammed the door shut.

He could hear the pups yipping and R’s cooing, asking them to quiet down in a higher pitched voice than he used to talk to Enjolras. Enjolras found himself looking into the room to see R on his knees, ushering the two wolf pups into a large dog cage, with food and water bowls and a large green doggy bed. Looking around the room, Enjolras realized he had found where the laundry room was.

After three or four minutes, R got up and closed the cage and faced Enj, the wolf pups lying down on the doggy bed.

“Sorry about that, I was called by a friend to help with- you know,” R sheepishly scratched the back of his neck, “I wrote those notes before I left so you’d be able to get in.”

“No, it’s fine, um… what is- those are wolves?” Enjolras was kind of at a loss of what to say.

“Yes, they are,” R smiled, accentuating the crows feet around his eyes, “We should let them sleep, come on.”

R closed the door without locking it, and went into the kitchen, Enjolras following behind him.

Like one of those whiny wolf babies.

“I hope you got through town okay,”

“Yeah it was fine, I had a really nice pastry and got told to buy a map.”

R chuckled, opening the fridge door and looking deep into it, “Althaia makes the ‘nice pastries’, as you call it. And Basil makes the bad jokes.”

R didn’t have the same accent as the people in the village, didn’t look much like them either. R was tanned, but a more pale tan, which seemed impossible with all the time that Enjolras assumed he spent outside. He had a hooked nose and delicate features, with stormy looking eyes and jet black hair and eyebrows. Enjolras couldn’t tell what the color of his eyes were, but he doubted it mattered much in the long run.

“You sound a bit different from the people in Akropolis.” Enjolras blurted out.

“Yes, around here we’re a bit more... higher class,” R said, grimacing at his choice of words, “As much as I hate that phrase in English, it’s inaccurate.”

“You speak English really well, by the way.”

“As I said, higher class,” R said, taking an apple out of the fridge and offering Enjolras a small vine of purple grapes, which he accepted, “I speak a few languages, honestly, my papa spoke french so it’s my second language, then english.”

“I’m from Paris.” 

“Doesn’t sound like it.” Passing by, R handed Enjolras a small flatware plate for his grapes and sat down on one of the chairs by the window.

“I see the sense of humor doesn’t have a class difference,” Enjolras said, crossing his arms, he intended to look annoyed but R just chuckled again, “My parents split a while back, I grew up in New York City and Montpellier.”

“Sounds like a lot of planes.”

“Yeah, got over my fear of flying at six years old.”

“You pronounce _six_ like a frenchman.”

“Thanks.”

They sat there looking at each other for a few seconds, Enjolras tapping his fingers on his elbows nervously, before deciding to sit down across from R.

“I doubt your name is just R.” Enjolras said, setting his plate of grapes on the table.

“It’s R to my friends,” He waited for Enjolras to speak and when he did not, “I guess we’ll be on a last name basis then, my name is Roden Grantaire.”

“Cameron Enjolras.” He said, sticking his hand out.

“We’ll, Mr. Cameron Enjolras, it is going to be an honor being your dickhead landlord and roommate for three and a half months.” Grantaire shook his hand.


End file.
